Ariel And Wodwo \ Cabin Fever

Alan:  There are times when I can’t resist turning on my elders and betters, Poets with a capital P.  And yet I do protest too much, methinks...

Ariel And Wodwo

I am, I should hope, a somewhat reasonable man;

somewhat advancing in years – not likely

to put my head into ovens, scissor

my angst into crows, fancies into foxes,

not likely to fashion my ladyfriends, passions,

neuroses into anything identifiable, metaphorical what-

soever.  In short, not a poet.  But then

I have you to thank for inflaming me

with what a poet is, how lives,

how dies, one thumb off and the other

grasping against smeared fingers

the bloody, blank, bird-feathered pen

with which it so busily waits

for the red core and thumping heart of it

to be smashed out on the page.

Nancy:  There’s always a day – maybe the sun comes out or the air softens – and suddenly the temptation surges to open a window and toss everything out, grab a broom and start over.

Cabin Fever

Rain, again.

Empty boots marching around the room to different drummers.

Socks, swimming.  Socks in repose.

Socks engaged in mating rituals.

Cats in preliminary poses for a series on the Furred Maja.

Techniques of Chinese Cooking.

Things to be filed.  A guide

to the formation and operation of small businesses.

Birds of the Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge.

Yesterday’s mail.  Yesterday’s lemon,

possibly good for one more cup of tea.

Tea, again.  Rataplan.  The socks swim on.